


Drunk

by brainyisalwayssexy



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I promise, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Light Angst, Pre-Relationship, and pre-spidey reveal, i just want peter and mj to be happy together ok bye, i promise fluff im not very dark, its angsty but also fluffy, t b h
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:09:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brainyisalwayssexy/pseuds/brainyisalwayssexy
Summary: Oh, she thinks. This was dangerous, so dangerous. Every little place they touched sent a thrum through her pulse, making her blood warm and her heart beat faster. If she wasn’t careful, she knew she’d do something rash. Like scream and run away. Or grin like an idiot. Or grab his collar, pull him on top of her, and kiss him until he moaned himself hoarse.Something like that.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------In which MJ gets drunk out of her mind, Peter carries her to bed, and MJ makes a (series) of important realizations. Pre-relationship Spideychelle.





	Drunk

 Drinking away your problems is always a bad, _bad_ idea.

 Michelle knew this, so at least she could say that she was self-aware. But that hadn’t stopped her from getting white girl wasted (well, in a manner of speaking, of course) at Flash’s tonight.

If she’s completely honest with herself, 99.99% of the stupid decisions she’s made in the last six months have revolved around alcohol. She should have seen a pattern by now.

Well, she had seen a pattern. She’d just ignored it. Because _damn_ if she’d let someone try and take care of her when she could take care of her shit just fine herself, thank you very much.

Which, ironically enough, is why Peter was now practically carrying her drunk ass to bed.

It was cute, she mused, the way he had become so fiercely protective of her once he saw her state. He’d batted off potential creeps, kept her away from more alcohol, and gotten her out of the party before she could get herself in any more trouble. She’d protested briefly, insisting that feminist theory was something that everyone at the party needed to educate themselves on, and she’d taken it upon herself to do that. He’d sighed and told her _yes_ , she was right, but being hammered while teaching was a disservice to the cause. Even in her drunk state, she had to agree with him there.

Cute _and_ smart, Peter, she’d practically cooed before winking at him.  

You’re drunk, MJ, he reminded her gently.

She’d hooked her arms around his neck -- bold for her, even in her drunken state -- and looked him right in the eyes.

I’d say that sober too, she told him.

It was ballsy. Daring. She had liked it, and given herself a mental pat on the back once she’d gotten it out.

He had just swallowed nervously before unhooking her arms from around his neck, but he’d still held her close enough to help her stand straight. Gravity, he knew, was not her friend at the moment.

Let me take you to your house, MJ, _please_ , he’d insisted. But she’d stiffened up a little too quickly at the word _house_ , before she simply shook her head fiercely. No, not there, she’d said. _Please_ , Peter. Take me anywhere but there.

He’d been kind enough not to ask her why. But surely he had an inkling -- she knew he’d seen her bruises and dark circles, and simply known her well enough to not ask. The one time he’d tried, she’d told him curtly that it wasn’t his battle to fight. And that had been the end of that.

She should be a bit more upset that he’s seeing this helpless side of her, given how she secretly -- or well, now, perhaps _not_ so secretly-- feels about him. But she’s far too hammered to really, _truly_ care. She’s also remembered reading somewhere that alcohol encouraged self-destructive tendencies. Destructive and MJ? That sounded about right, to her ears.

So Peter had decided to take her back to his apartment where she could crash until the sun rose and the alcohol left her bloodstream. MJ wasn’t worried -- May loved her, she’d be fine waking up in the morning. The impending hangover, and the likely return of reason and rationality headed her way-- now _that_ made her a bit nervous.

Peter, for his credit, had led her home without so much as a peep, even as the alcohol blurred her senses and caused her attempts at a walk to devolve into what could only be described as a glorified shuffle at best. By the end, she knew he was all but carrying her, supporting the bulk of her weight while she sighed sleepily and curled her head into the crook of his neck.

At long last, he’s managed to lead them all the way back to his apartment ( _home_ , she thinks to herself). Peter lets go of her briefly to quietly unlock the door (he can’t afford to wake May.) She knows this, but still grumbles at him childishly until he dutifully returns to his previous task of shuffle-carrying her forward.

After a bit more muffled stumbling in the dark , Peter navigates them to his room ( _no_ , MJ, don’t go _near_ the Millenium Falcon, Ned will kick my ass, _please_ , he’d begged her).

Having saved the Millennium Falcon from her drunken path of destruction, he had then started to lay her down slowly, gently on the bed.  He almost makes it, really, but of course, in her soppy, tipsy state, she forgets unwrap herself from him. And so he’s suddenly crashing down on top of her, one arm still wrapped tightly around her waist.

It’s an honest mistake, and her fault entirely. But in that moment, she knows it feels anything _but_ a mistake. It feels terrifyingly, heart-stoppingly _intimate_.

And it’s absolutely ridiculous, yes, but suddenly she finds that she feels wide awake, her heart going absolutely fucking _crazy_ because of the way he’s holding her in his arms. His face is literally inches from hers. She can trace out all the fine details of his face, can feel his breath warm on her lips. She lets her eyes catch with his for a fraction of a second before she swallows and looks down, finding direct contact hard, her treacherous guilty heart suddenly beating out of control.

Friendly flirting with him had always been easy enough. She loved teasing him, messing with him, and, for what it was worth, he always took it like a champ. It was so much easier than addressing the truth of her feelings head-on.

But facing it -- quite _literally_ , she thinks to herself -- this feels like the hardest thing she’s ever done.

She moves, suddenly, and lets her hands shift up, one on his collar and one near his chest, near his beating heart. The movement is innocent enough, but it’s enough. Peter strains to keep his expression neutral, but she swears can feel his heart hammering, too.

  _Oh_ , she thinks. This was _dangerous_ , so dangerous. Every little place they touched sent a thrum through her pulse, making her blood warm and her heart beat faster. If she wasn’t careful, she knew she’d do something rash. Like scream and run away. Or grin like an idiot. Or grab his collar, pull him on top of her, and kiss him until he moaned himself hoarse.

 Something like that.

 But she can’t tell him all that, so she focuses her energy into one singular thought, instead:

 _Stay with me,_ she thinks.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Because she _knows_ , and she’s always known, really, that Peter would never betray her like that. He would never throw himself at her when she was inebriated, take advantage of her lack of power, even if she outright begged him to.

She both loved and hated him for that.

Loved him, not because it was noble or chivalrous or something stupid like that, but simply because it was the _right thing to do_.

Hated him, because she knew she’d lose her nerve in the morning.

But perhaps that was just the way it was meant to be.

Slowly, gently, he lets her go and stands up, stepping back to create a more respectable distance between them. It’s safe, it’s friendly, and she hates it.  She lets out a grumble and mutters something phenomenally rude under her breath to break the lingering tension that remains. Sure enough,  just like that, Peter cracks a small grin, clearly amused at how quickly MJ is back to her grumpy ways. His face softens as he gives her one last look-over, and even in the darkness, she thinks  she can catch a hint of tenderness in his eyes, more tenderness than she knows what to do with.

 Suddenly, she feels bad for making him worry. Peter deserves better. He is such a good friend to her -- and he always has been, even when she _wasn’t_ for him. He’s selfless and kind in a way that she never _really_ believed people could be. Hell, for all the shit thrown at him, he remains nothing less than a fucking ray of sunshine in a world that insisted on remaining dark and grey. It’s a sort of quiet, brave resilience she admires like no other. She loves him for it. It’s her dark little secret.

 But that’s far more than she can handle ever saying aloud, so instead, she whispers:

 Will you be here in the morning?

 It’s a silly question, she knows, childish really. But she knows she can be more trouble than she’s worth, and she’s terrified of the truth, so she wants, no, _needs_ to hear him answer it.

 Peter responds in a heartbeat.

 Of _course_ , he replies, his voice impossibly gentle.

 It’s an unspoken promise, one she knows he intends to keep.

 He makes for the door, turns, and then, almost as if it’s an afterthought --

 Good night, MJ, he murmurs.

 She rolls over to her side, to drink in the way he’s looking at her one last time, before exhaustion finally claims her and makes her forget it all , and sighs --

 Good night, Peter.

 Then she tumbles into sleep quickly, dreaming of a kind boy and a golden world.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was rushed, un-betaed, spur of the moment, and not my usual fare, but I hope you enjoyed another lil slice of life fic, and give me some comments too! I live feedback, so lay it on me. Thanks!


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